When I was 16, I went to France for 10 days, living, speaking, and breathing the language and culture with a family of strangers in the Loire Valley for the first five days. I celebrated Easter with the family and enjoyed escargots. I ate aligot. My toes touched the sea at both Île de Rhé and La Baule. I bought a treasured tin of salted butter caramels in Brittany. I snuck into the discothèque without an ID (though I was old enough), stayed up until 5am and slept in until 1pm. I rode the bus and went to Nantes with my “sister” and her sophisticated, older Blonde, anorexic-skinny, multiple-pack-a-day-smoking, herb-taking, porcelain-skinned, ripped-jeaned cousin. I was now cultured. Right.

My love of all things French endured, and I studied the language and culture (and la gastronomie, bien sûr!) through college. Now, I’ll occasionally listen to French music. I’ll read Le Monde every once in a while. I’ll flip through a French cookbook a couple times a year. I can help with French culinary terms at work. But a francophile? Well, I’m posing. I am many years removed from my time in France, when I was confident about my language skills and up on current events. I am a phony. But I have my memories. And by recalling them, I might have the motivation to reconnect.

You’ll rarely find me wearing more than a single piece of jewelry at one time. I don’t own much. A few years back, I combed through my humble collection, set aside the excess and kept only what I found myself wearing more than a few times a year. The pieces found happy homes. The exercise was part of a larger cleanse—a purging of clothes, collectables, printed recipes, and the like. That always feels refreshing.

If I really dig, though, I cannot pinpoint the real motive for this clean-out. It seems that the urge to de-clutter was probably not the reason why I ended up with an empty jewelry box. Maybe it had something to do with my aging process and my unfortunate tendency to reject frivolity and embrace pure practicality. (I’m working on it!) Perhaps I found my possessions boring, outgrown, or overworn. Why keep something if it doesn’t excite you? Why bother if slipping the cold metal across your clean skin doesn’t lift your spirits?

It’s true that this blog is relatively young, but sometimes I feel a little disconnected from the Boston food blogging community for a very good reason: I don’t actually live in Boston. I commute to Boston for work. I went to school in Boston. My friends are in Boston. I’m a walking catalogue of where to eat in Boston. I feel like Boston is my true home, and sometimes I have to remind myself that I can’t just hop the T to get to my house at night or that I can’t just go out to dinner with a friend without advance planning.

That’s why I was thrilled when I snagged a spot to my first Boston Brunchers event this past Sunday. I always refer to myself as a “cookbook hoarder.” In recent years, I’ve changed that to “good cookbook hoarder,” as I’m awfully discerning about the sources from which I use recipes. Nonetheless, I pour over cookbooks in my spare time, treasure pulling from different cookbooks to make a cohesive menu and, quite honestly, would choose to read one over a really good novel. So a slightly unconventional Sunday brunch chez Harvard Common Press was right up my alley.